The Everlasting Rose Page 2

  Edel starts to cough. “I need water,” she says.

  “Are you sick?” Amber asks.

  “Thirsty,” Edel replies. “Can you grab some?”

  “Why can’t you?” Amber’s eyebrows lift with suspicion.

  “You always get the water. You know how to work the house pumps.” They lock eyes. “Plus, I’m not dressed, and you are.”

  “Amber, please. The teacup dragons need some as well,” I add.

  She shrugs, then leaves the room.

  As soon as the door closes, Edel stops coughing and turns to me. “Don’t tell her about the glamours.”

  “Why?” I ask, feeling Edel’s distrust of Amber like a flash of heat.

  “She’s too weak to try it right now. We should wait until we know exactly how it works. We both have always been stronger and more willing to experiment than she is.”

  “But we’ll need to show her soon.” I study Edel’s face.

  “Of course,” Edel says, avoiding my eyes. “When the time is right.”

  The sun hasn’t risen when I sneak out of bed and dress to go out. Rémy is off on one of his night-watch rounds. I don’t bother using the cold water in our basin for fear of waking Amber and Edel. I’m getting used to the dirt. The memories of onsens full of claw-foot tubs and rose-shaped soaps and sweet oils and honey scrubs, perfume blimps leaving behind their scents, and beauty-lanterns dusting us with perfect beams of light are clouds drifting out to sea never to be caught again.

  I put in the eye-films that Arabella gave us, then blink until they settle, and I can see the small room again. We’ve fallen into a synchronized rhythm like the dancing koi fish that used to live in our fountain at Maison Rouge: Amber fetches fresh water from the house pumps every morning and even scrounges up small pieces of lime soap so we can make an attempt at bathing; Edel keeps the room tidy by stealing the house mistress’s broom each afternoon; Rémy watches every movement in and out of the boardinghouse; and I nurse our teacup dragons, teach them how to fly, and secure our nightly meals.

  At times it feels like we could go on living this way if we wanted. Move from boardinghouse to boardinghouse to evade the imperial guards. Take care of one another. Fold into the regular population of Orléans and live in secret. But my desire to see Sophia fall has become a whispered refrain making my body restless, as if my limbs and heart know that this isn’t the place for us. That I must face her. That I must make her pay for what she’s done. That I must do what Queen Celeste would have wanted.

  Amber and Edel are still a mess of legs and arms and quilts in the bed we share. I have only a few moments to get out the front door of the boardinghouse before Rémy returns. I ease down the staircase, careful not to hit any of the squeaky wood planks. This is the second time I’ve sneaked out since we arrived.

  In the main salon, a few night-lanterns putter low along the ground. Three teacup cats wander across the long tables in search of crumbs. One meows at me.

  “Shh,” I whisper. “Don’t ruin my plan.”

  I tie the ribbons of the mask Edel gave me. It’s made of rich black velvet and lace, and hugs the contours of my face and neck like a soft glove. Guaranteed to protect one’s makeup from the cold-season weather. Or shield one’s identity. The southerly winds make these popular here, creating the perfect locale for staying hidden.

  I unlatch the hook on the front door and close it gently behind me.

  An early-morning mist covers the city, choking the buildings with fog. The day after Maman died, the world outside the windows of Maison Rouge looked the same. Through the rose-shaped bars, I watched the dark forest catch rain clouds, trapping them down from the sky. I always imagined them as the Goddess of Beauty’s tears, shed over the death of another one of her gifts to our world. I wanted to race out the back doors and venture deeper into the forest than we’d ever been allowed to go before, scream for Maman to be brought back, and wait for the Goddess of Beauty to answer me.

  I gaze up at a wakening sky. The plum darkness cracks open like an egg, releasing ribbons of orange and yellow and tangerine.

  “Are you up there, Beauty?” I wait to hear her voice boom down from the sky. “Were you ever there? Or are you a lie, too?”

  Nothing.

  A milk vendor and her cart plod along, leaving the noisy trail of clinking glasses. “Fresh pints to go with your morning pastries. Get them here!”

  Her calls hasten me forward. Last time I sneaked out, the streets were empty.

  Black mourning-lanterns drift about, casting their shadowy light over the cobblestones. Portraits of the departed Queen Celeste hang from banners and populate nearby avenue boards. The sight of her beautiful face wrenches my heart. How upset she’d be about what has happened, her warnings about Sophia now prophetic. Blimps snake through tall towers and post-balloons zip around their large frames. Their bulbous underbellies leave behind swaths of darkness and shadows.

  A woman exits a shop.

  My heart beats against my rib cage.

  A warning. A sign to turn back.

  I duck into a nearby alley, waiting for her to pass. She slows down and stops to look in my direction. She wears a peculiar mask that curves around all the edges of her face, neck, and chest, reminding me of a gilded mold for a bust or statue. The moonlight exposes its delicate iron edges and intricate etchings.

  I press myself farther into the shadows.

  The noise of the milk vendor pulls her attention. She abandons her curiosity about me and runs off.

  I should go back to the boardinghouse, but I count to twenty, then leave my hiding spot, and press on. I turn onto the Imperial Mile that stretches from Metairie’s royal mansions and empties out at one of the island clusters’ many bridges. Gauzy arch-lanterns scatter strips of light like bars of gold. I’ve memorized each street and avenue and alley near the boardinghouse under Rémy’s guidance and his expert maps. “You must know how to get out of here without me,” he’d said right after we’d first arrived. “If anything should happen, I need to know that you’ll be able to navigate.”

  The avenue boards don’t even shimmer at this time of the morning, my lonely presence not strong enough to animate them. Orléans’s most famous singer stares back at me with bright eyes and a frozen grin and rich light brown skin like hazelnut butter. The shops wear CLOSED signs and burned-out night-lanterns float over their doors like stormy, ominous clouds. In a few hours, these avenues will bloat with bodies.

  I hook a right down the street that ends with a perfume shop. A trio of eccentric-pink flowers glows in the front windows. Almost there.

  “Lost, dearie?” a voice hisses.

  I whip around. Red eyes flash at me from beneath a hood. The Gris woman bares her teeth, yellowed and crooked and meant to be a smile, but it looks more like a threat.

  “No,” I say, steadying my voice.

  The woman’s shriveled gray skin catches the moonlight. “Any leas to spare?”

  “Sorry, I don’t have anything.”

  “You look like you have spintria. I’ll take that, too.”

  I wish I did have something for her. I used to have a pocket full of beauty tokens and possess enough bags of spintria to easily fill a thousand safes. But her words are a surprise. We were told many of the Gris choose to remain that way, the madness pushing them to the edge, erasing any desires to pull themselves up and earn enough spintria to join regular society.

  “I have nothing,” I say, rushing ahead, but she follows, muttering nonsense. Fear crawls over my skin. I remember the first Gris woman I ever saw. My sisters and I had just turned thirteen, and the older girls were practicing using their arcana in the lesson rooms. Hana and I sneaked into the Aura chambers and hid beneath the treatment tables when women as gray as a thunderstruck sky were marched in. We pressed our faces against lace tableskirts as the women were laid over us, their screams quelled with mouth bandages. The tussling melody of their fighting bodies was stamped out with thick leather straps pinning them down as vial
after vial of Belle elixir was administered in an attempt to calm them.

  “Only spiders come out this early,” she says.

  “Leave me alone,” I whisper hard.

  “Out past curfew,” she screeches and wags a crooked finger at me.

  “Go away.” I try to dodge past her. Panic races through my veins like it’s replaced the arcana.

  She slaps me and knocks my mask askew.

  I scramble to fix it and swallow the cry of shock and pain clawing its way up my throat.

  “I know you. I’ve seen you before.”

  The heavy stomp of soldiers’ boots echoes in the morning quiet.

  She grabs my wrist, digging hooked fingernails into my skin. “You’re the one they’re looking for.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” My heart speeds up.

  Her throaty chuckle becomes a wheeze. “Who are you fooling?” She points her other finger at me as I jerk away. “Not me, that’s who.” Her eyes narrow. “Guards! Guards!” she shouts. “I shall be rewarded. The newsies told us we could change our stars if we made sure to pay attention for the fugitives. I didn’t believe them. They tell so many lies. But now, it’s true.”

  Sweat pours down my back despite the chilly air. I shove her, but her grip tightens. We crash into a window box of cold-season flowers. The arcana almost hiss beneath my skin. An instinctual reminder. I tug at the fibers of the holly plant, forcing them to grow like hair. The roots burst through the wooden sides of the box and tumble along the cobblestoned street. They coil around the woman’s arms and legs, yanking her away from me. Her red glare burns into me and she screams.

  I force the leaves to grow and cover her mouth, silencing her protests. She thrashes until she clobbers her head against the wall and loses consciousness.

  My heart plummets. What have I done?

  I touch her face. Cold. Clammy.

  The noise of the soldiers grows louder. They run in our direction.

  She wouldn’t stop, I tell myself.

  I had to.

  Is she dead?

  The sound of my pulse thrums in my ears. I dart left off the Imperial Mile and run the rest of the way down the avenue. Only a single shop boasts a morning-lantern over its glass windows—a signal that it is open for business. Glittering rose-colored lanterns bear apothecary symbols—a snake curled around a mortar and pestle. The wind bats them like balloons.

  Nerves flutter like tiny wings inside my chest. Maybe it’s from being recognized. Maybe it’s from using the arcana. Maybe it’s from interacting with a Gris person up close for the first time. Maybe it’s from hurting someone.

  I gaze through a gold-trimmed window. Three apothecary bulbs sway and glow in shades of ocean blue and emerald green. Spiderwebs climb over them and glisten in the light. Day-lanterns cruise about the store. The walls are alive with color and hold endless shelves of glass containers that twinkle like bottled stars. A beautiful sign hangs above the doorway, and in cursive lettering announces: CLAIBORNE’S APOTHECARY.

  I glance behind me at the now empty street before ducking inside. The scent of a crackling fire and medicinal pastilles meets my nose. The large room has three stories of mahogany cabinets separated by curled iron balconies and sets of spiraled staircases. Bottles wear handwritten labels and lea prices. I recognize many by sight—foxglove, belladonna, poppy, bay laurel. Others contain blue-glass poison bottles, bei powder, wafers, metal instruments—saws, scissors, knives, lancets—and patent medicines boasting cures for fever, lumps, and other illnesses.

  Mr. Claiborne, portly and close to losing his eyesight, pops out from behind a curtain. His light brown skin is covered with freckles and moles, and I wonder why he chose to have so many. “Is that you, little flower?” he says. The sound of his voice puts me at ease.

  “What if I said no?” I reply.

  “I would say that someone was walking around in your skin. There’s a natural perfume you have. Different than ours. You might want to mask it with pomander beads. Le Nez should be releasing their new year’s scents soon. If you don’t, you could be easily caught by a soldier with a keen nose.” His mouth lifts with a smile. “But not to worry, I have several new formulas if you care to take a look.”

  “You could’ve turned me in days ago,” I say.

  “Why would I do that?”

  “The reward,” I counter, taking off the mask.

  “I’m in no need of leas. My father left me a boon and this shop. What I needed was a challenge—and you’ve provided it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime type of exploration. Furthermore, my wife—if awake—would have none of it. She’s longed to spend more time with Belles. Always been fascinated by your kind. I think every person in this world believes at one point or another that they’d love to switch places with you all.”

  “Only because they don’t know the truth.”

  “What is the truth anymore? With the papers profiting from lies and people scrambling to outdo one another. The truth is whatever you say it is.” He turns and whistles. His teacup peacock struts along the counter and places gold lea coins on a set of scales. “Good work, Sona. Well done,” Claiborne praises.

  I roll up my sleeve before he asks me to. “You need to dust off your window bulbs. They’re full of cobwebs.”

  “Spiders are always welcome here,” he says. “Now... on to the reason for your visit.” He rummages through cabinets beneath the counter, retrieving a small wooden case. He opens it and exposes a set of gleaming needles. “I have some not-great news for you, little flower. I’m loving this puzzle but finding it difficult to crack.”

  I sigh with disappointment.

  “Well, rather... a challenge to get precise, and I require precision above all else. The items in my apothecary contain promises, and I want this tonic to fulfill your wishes. I’ve mixed nightshade and hemlock, even a bit of strychnine extract, with your blood, and found our elixir continues to be unstable. Too little of my tonic and it does nothing to the arcana proteins in your blood. Too much and it kills them and any other healthy ones around it.”

  “What should we do?” I try to keep the desperation out of my voice as part of my plan becomes a post-balloon set off in the wrong direction, unable to be caught and re-sent.

  “Let me show you the conundrum first.” He fixes a monocle to his left eye, then takes an optic-scope from a nearby shelf. The apparatus resembles a large beauty-scope—a slender end to gaze through and its opposite stretching out like a horn plugged with glass. “Ready?”

  I nod.

  He pushes a needle into the crook of my arm and draws a vial of blood, adds a few drops of it to a sliver of glass, and slips it into the base of the optic-scope.

  “Look into the oculus,” he directs.

  I press my eye to the slender tip. My blood. The blood Arabella said had the strength to grow the next generation of Belles. “It looks like a glittering net holding rose petals.”

  “Quite the poet you are,” he replies. “Those oblong-shaped objects—the petals, you call them—are what make up your blood. The net is your arcana. If you were to look at mine, the threads wouldn’t glow. That is your gift from the Goddess.”

  “A curse.”

  He chortles. “I suppose now it is one.” He uncorks a small bottle and uses a metal dropper to draw out its contents. “Now pay careful attention. One pearl-size bead or so...” He squeezes the top, and a fat drop slides onto the glass, mixing with the blood. The net of arcana threads hardens like bone, then shatters into pieces.

  I gasp.

  “Keep watching. A little more...” He adds a half drop, and the red circles shrivel and darken like raisins. “Too much of this and someone could die.” He looks up and taps the oculus to get my attention. “You have to be very, very careful, my flower.”

  His warning wraps around me and squeezes tight.

  He pats my hand. “I will package it with specific instructions while you go and visit my wife.”

  “Has she woken?” I as
k while glancing into the oculus one more time. Now, the red circles resemble black pebbles.

  “Only briefly. But I’m certain she will regain her wakefulness soon. She falls into those deep fits of sleep from time to time. I have to get her balanced and my patent medicines do that. Me and my trusty assistant Sona here.” He ruffles the peacock’s tiny feathers. “We’ll work it out. When she does wake for a longer spell of time, she’ll be happy to see her beauty maintained. I only have you do this for her benefit, you see. I don’t care how she looks, as long as she gets well.”

  “I understand.”

  “But it’ll keep her invigorated to recover fully and maybe avoid the things that put her in these sleeping spells to begin with.”

  I nod at him.

  “Sona, will you lead our guest like a good host?” He sets the peacock on the floor and lifts the curtain separating the front of the shop from the back. “Don’t mind the mess, little flower. I’ve been busier than usual.”

  The little bird trots forward down the long hallway. Night-lanterns bathe her in soft light, catching the rich blues of her tail. I follow, stepping into a world of cupboards lined with bottles of every shape and size, liquids the color of honey, amber, and licorice; bulb-shaped vials and vases of curious construction; and shelves featuring flasks of pickled items, delicate glass instruments, and piles of drying herbs.

  We climb a winding staircase up to the second floor. Healing-lanterns bob and weave through the room, scattering balls of cerulean-tinted light. Madam Claiborne’s long frame swallows a too-small bed. Her arms and legs hang off of it like dead branches discarded by trees as the windy season comes to an end, and her skin struggles to hold on to the alabaster color I gave her two days ago. The gray pushes through, and her veins resemble threadbare yarn ready to unravel. Stick-straight hair cascades over her chest like spools of midnight, and she has the beautiful curves of an hourglass. Thick, sinewy, and full.

  I made her look like a blend of Hana and Valerie. My heart squeezes at the thought of what they both might be going through; what all my other sisters must be experiencing. The newsreels report that those from my generation are being held hostage. Hana in the Glass Isles and Valerie at Maison Rouge and Padma in the Bay of Silk. An angry knot coils tight in my chest, the desire to rescue them competing with the need to find Princess Charlotte.